The Pale Wolves
by Dave Colton
Summary: A small group of adventurers attempt to start their own brotherhood in the Northern reaches of Skyrim. Will their plans come to fruition? Will they all survive the journey? What strange characters will they meet, and how large will the group become? Come adventure with the Pale Wolves and their pack. Planned weekly updates.
1. Chapter 1

The Pale Wolves

Chapter 1: Foundations of the Pack

Frozen, night wind howled around the three huddled, cloaked figures that stood around the top rim of the ancient burial tomb. They shivered vigorously from the cold and the anticipation of delving into the historic depths of the place below. The tallest of the three toed a rock off the edge and it bounced down the steps they were about to take.

"What do we expect to find down there," he asked. His voice was a bit deep and had a slight Nord accent. His grip on his cloak loosened slightly as he stared into the pit, the cold not as much of a factor to him as his two companions. His short cropped, blond hair was being tousled by the wind, his hood lying useless against his cape. He narrowed his eyes at the door, as if willing it to open by itself.

"Whatever it is," the figure between he and the third began, "it's apparently an object of great importance to our employer." His voice was almost silky and seemed to ooze a sense of near-arrogance carried by the Dunmer, or Dark Elves of the region.

"Well, lets get this over with," the third said, obviously an Orc by his height and the gruffness of his voice. "There better be something down there to kill. I didn't make this trip in the middle of the night just to look at some dead bodies." He stepped down onto the first step and continued with haste, the Elf and the Nord following close behind.

When they arrived at the door, the Orc stopped and glanced back at the Nord, expecting him to try the door. The Nord sighed and moved to the door. "Khazromal, when will you get over this irrational fear of things being behind doors just waiting to kill you," he asked, mostly rhetorically.

"Once I have opened every door in Skyrim to prove to myself there's nothing behind any of them," he retorted, a small chuckle to his voice. The Nord grasped the handle and turned, though to no avail. The door wouldn't budge. He tried again, this time pushing against the door with his shoulder, though the same result became of it.

"Move, Valerius," the Elf said. "Let a master handle this." He smirked as he elbowed the Nord out of the way. He placed his hands on the knob and began to mutter some sort of incantation as the knob began to emit a light that seemed to emanate from within the metal itself. Once his chant had finished, he tried the knob, but the smile on his features faded as quickly as the glow of the door handle. "Blast," he whispered as he dug into the pouch on his belt. He pulled out a small set of lock picks and expertly inserted them into the lock, his nimble fingers possessing a dexterity that neither of his companions possessed. After a minute of manipulating the lock, still with no positive results, the Orc began to tap his foot.

"Hurry up, Ilisian," he chided, his arms crossed.

"I'm trying, Khaz. This lock is better than most on tombs this age."

Khaz moved forward and stood just behind Ilisian to his right, near the middle of the door. He raised his foot and kicked swiftly outward, the bottom of his leather boot connecting with the center of the door. The lock broke free of the rotted wood of the frame and the entrance swung inwards, granting them access.

"I broke one of my picks," Ilisian sighed, looking up at the Orc. "You could have at least given we warning. I only have five of them left!." Khaz shrugged and took a step back.

"Not my fault you take too long to pick a lock."

Valerius stepped into the tomb, peering down the dark, stone corridor, which continued into the hill with a downward slope. He turned back around, his gaze falling to Ilisian.

"Light."

Ilisian sighed, clasping his hands together as he whispered another, less intricate spell. A small ball of light had formed itself in the palms of his hands, and when he opened them, It floated outwards and hovered just before the Nord's face, illuminating his path.

"Keep this thing lit," Valerius ordered forcefully, "I don't want it going out just before I reach a sink hole like last time," he concluded, turning to face the corridor.

The light was fairly bright, though it only illuminated five to ten feet before the trio. They advanced slowly down the hallway until they came to a torch sconce, in which sat a half-used torch. Valerius removed it gingerly and handed it back to Ilisian, who once again sighed.

"Why must I always be the torch bearer," he queried to himself as he grabbed the top end of the torch, the oil-infused rags quickly flaring to life.

"Because," Val began, "you don't use weapons if we get into a fight." He chuckled to himself as he drew the Iron sword out of its place on his belt. The metal sheen of it was in stark contrast to the dull illumination of his fur-and-leather armor which looked like it had been thrown together at the last minute before he walked out of this house, which it had been. It was stained and dirty with a few blood spots here and there from the last run-in with a 'toll collector' they had.

The little Bosmer had insisted they pay the toll for using 'his' road, and told them they'd have to turn back if they didn't pay the 'toll'. The 'little pipsqueak', as Khazromal had so affectionately referred to him, barely escaped with his life after the Mage's bodyguards had finished with him.

Their pace had quickened since finding the torch, a further distance had been illuminated as compared to the mage light Ilisian had used. They entered into a vast, high-ceilinged room with three tiers of shallow, horizontal graves had been dug, each occupied by bodies in various states of decay, ranging from pure bone to a few that had been entombed not more than a month before.

"I've never understood your peoples' reasoning for leaving your dead's bodies exposed like this," Ilisian stated, a frown of disgust appearing under his slightly upturned nose. "It seems very... primitive, if not completely unsanitary," he concluded his eyes wandering among the bodies of the deceased.

"And I can't understand why you wouldn't wish to look upon your ancestors," Valerius responded, saying no more on the subject.

The three stood in the middle of the room, looking around in amazement (and disgust, on Ilisian's part) before Khaz finally stepped out from the back of the group, his hand pointing to a large, dark hole in the wall.

"My guess is that way," he said, heading for the archway at the back of the chamber. Ilisian quickly grabbed a hold of the Orc's cloak and, quite forcibly, pulled backwards, almost knocking the Orsimer onto his behind. Khazromal yelped in surprise as the Dunmer quickly stepped in front of his companion.

"Do you not pay attention to where you're stepping," he asked angrily. He quickly picked up a small chunk of stone, which seemed to have fallen from the ceiling, and tossed it a few steps ahead of himself. The unmistakable _whiz_ of darts filled the air before them as fifteen tiny barbs whizzed through the air and clinked harmlessly against the stone across the hall. Khaz merely stared, dumbfounded, at the spot where his foot would have tread, if not for the keen of of his comrade. "You owe me," Ilisian smirked as he strode, torch in hand, over the pressure plate of the trap and into the next hallway. The other two followed, now fully aware of their footfalls.

The passage continued to wind downwards and curved to the left and ended in a small, wooden door, just a bit smaller than the one found at the entrance. The Elf twisted the knob and the door swung open, easily, into a small chamber with a black, stone tomb in the center. The room was barely ten feet by twelve feet wide, but the three pushed in together around the sarcophagus and stared down at it.

"This must be it," Valerius started in wonder, "the tomb of Calundren the Wise."

"And inside is our prize, gentlemen," Ilisian finished, his hands running greedily along the top of the coffin. "Lets nab this necklace and get out of here."

"Agreed," Khaz stated, his hand moving to grasp the top as well. "This place creeps me out."

They three grabbed the lid and lift-pushed it off, the heavy stone crashing to the floor on the other side. They stared down at the corpse before them. It looked at least two centuries old, and was adorned in fine, silken, black robed, black suede-leather shoes, a centuries-old sword, a large, golden necklace with a medallion and a small gold and onyx circlet adorning the head.

Khazromal almost immediately reached for the necklace before his hands were slapped away by Ilisian.

"You have no thoughts of self-preservation, do you," he asked, staring at the Orc as a father would a son while scolding him. "Can you not see there is something off about all this?" He gestured to the necklace. "This was too easy. Nothing stopped us. A piece of jewelry owned by a man this influential and powerful would have some sort of ward or charm placed on it." Khaz merely grunted and backed away from the coffin and leaned against the far wall, arms crossed upon his chest. Ilisian once again reached into the pouch at his waist and produced an almost identical necklace and held if aloft as he stared at the medallion around the cadaver's neck, as if appropriating the weight. He nodded to Valerius, who moved to the spot at the head of the body and slipped his hands underneath, feeling for a clasp. When his fingers had found it, he nodded again and Ilisian quickly lifted the necklace and placed the other on the same spot. Valerius undid the clasp, removed the chain and quickly re-latched the replacement around the man's neck.

They stood back after their work had finished and stared at the body for a moment with bated breath. When nothing happened after several moments, they all three released their breath and heaved a heavy sigh of relief.

"You see?" Khaz said, his chest puffed out in pride, "I knew nothing would happen." He chuckled heartily before a _thump_ echoed from within the chamber they had recently vacated. It was followed by another and another, and before long, a long, low, drawn out groan emanated from the room and echoed down the passageway into the room they now occupied.

"Drauger," Valerius whispered out loud. "The guardians of the tomb" He stared at the entrance for a moment. "They came alive to protect their master, even in death," he finished. "I never knew they existed. I always thought them a myth," he exclaimed. "There had to be at least a hundred of them out there," he continued. Khaz jumped forward and slammed the door shut.

"Get the lid over here," he demanded, pressing all his weight into the oak door. The other two took a second to realize what was going on, but they quickly hoisted the lid up and over the coffin. They lay it across the door, width wise, and stepped back, the Drauger nearing the entrance.

"What do we do now," Ilisian cried, his hands raking his head and tugging at his long, black hair. "We're trapped with those things out there. There's too many for the three of us," he said, beginning to sob.

"Val," Khaz said after a moment. "Can't you turn them? Make them flee?" Val sighed at the Orc, slowly shaking his head. "I know how if there were one or two, but that many, I'd be overrun in a moment." Khaz opened his mouth as if to say something before he angrily sputtered " Then what are we to do, starve in here? We can't just sit here an-"

His speech was cut short as a faint, purple light began to surround the body of Calundren. It slowly seemed to rise into the air, tendrils of light wrapping themselves around his limbs and torso. It rose a good three feet above the coffin before settling itself on its feet, the strange purple-white light seeming to come from the corpse itself. It clasped its sword tightly in its hand and slowly turned to face the unfortunate trio.

"You have got to be kidding me," Valerius said, his eyes glued to the newly-risen Drauger. He readied his sword and held his shield aloft whilte Ilisian's hands seemed to cloak themselves in flames. Khaz lifted the great ax he carried and the three squared themselves off with the new foe, though it didn't move. They stood, waiting for the normally aggressive undead to make the first move, but for several seconds, nothing happened.

"What's going on," Khaz asked, daring to look at the other two. "Why isn't it doing anything?"

"Because Dar'Miisa hasn't told it to," said a heavily-accented voice from the back corner of the room. It was then a dark-cloaked figure stepped out from the shadows, hid hood pulled high over his head. He almost seemed to materialize out of nothing.

"Dar'Miisa can help. Dar'Miisa knows many things, and Dar'Miisa knows the way out."


	2. Chapter 2

The Pale Wolves

Chapter 2:

The cloaked figure watched the three adventurers enter the tomb from a hidden location in a pile of rocks jutting up through the frozen wasteland they called Skyrim. This gods forsaken place was far from the warm, shifting sands of Elsweyr, but it was a necessary precaution for him to take, to travel so far from his homeland. This trip had been long in the making, and had been continuing for longer than he could remember, which was quite some time. His ears shifted as they spoke, wondering what they'd find and he nearly laughed aloud at their squabble to open the main door. It would have taken an individual like himself only a fraction of the time they had blundered at the entrance, but on the other hand, not many individuals had the amount of training he had.

He silently crept down the stairs and passed through the broken entrance, his form never touching the door. He stopped for a moment to admire the small, foot-shaped indent the Orc had left. He was sure it had been the Orc. The air reeked with his stench. He already knew the other two companions. The Dark Elf, as his ears had discerned half an hour ago while tailing the group, seemed to be the unofficial leader and, from what he could tell, the smartest of the three. It wasn't hard to be with the given company; a failed Stormcloak and a mercenary from High Rock.

He chuckled to himself as he listened to them blunder down the steps. Nords, and surely not Orcs, weren't known for their grace. He had only met a few of each race that could come anywhere close to himself, and he could that number on one hand.

In the main chamber, he decided to skirt around the small group as they admired the craftsmanship of the ancient Nords and bicker about the proper way to bury the dead. 'Let them rot where they fall' was his motto, but then again, not many people thought the way he did.

He had just ducked into the shadows of the corridor towards the archway leading to the final chamber when the Orc had realized where they should be going. He stifled a growl that had threatened to tear itself from his throat when he saw the oaf's foot nearly step on the pressure plate of the trap. He froze when he felt their eyes in his direction, but needed to drop onto his stomach when the ignorant Elf tossed a rock to show his green-skinned companion his near-call with death. He bit his tongue as nearly two dozen, most likely poisoned darts whizzed inches above his head, nearly clipping his ears.

He scrambled to his feet without making more than the few pebbles under his boot shift, and hurried as fast as silence would carry him into the final chamber, cursing the Orc for his almost-near-death experience.

When he arrived at the door, he immediately grabbed the handle. When it wouldn't open, he expertly pulled a set of lock picks out of the pouch that hung at his right side and, in one fluid motion, inserted them into the lock mechanism. He began testing the tensile strength of each of the tumblers as he glanced back at the passageway, cursing the fact he could now hear them approaching. The lock was of master craftsmanship, but he had cracked into tougher and within seconds had picked the lock, opened the door, slid in and shut it without sound. He glanced about the meager room looking for anything to hide in, on top of or behind, but seeing the only cover was the coffin of black stone, he decided it would just be best to skulk in a corner.

He nearly leapt the dozen feet into the nook and pressed himself into the corner as deeply as he could, his black cloak hiding him completely. Listening to how loud the three were as the approached the door, he was amazed to think these were the three his servant had told him about. Especially when he realized, after they had opened the coffin lid, the 'mage' of the group didn't even think to check the amulet for protective charms or guardian curses. They were inexperienced, but he saw promise in their teamwork, even if the Orc did tend to act without thinking. That could be corrected. A team that distrusted each other couldn't. He had nearly stepped forward when he realized they had triggered the trap that would mean their own doom, but he decided to watch how they worked under pressure. His eyes coolly surveyed the scene before him, his gaze falling on each member of the trio, reading him. The Elf was distraught. He knew not what to do, nor what was to become of him. The Nord was disbelieving; Drauger didn't exist in his world, and they shouldn't, even though the evidence was crawling its way down the hallway. He was frozen in shock, his mind alight, now, with the possibility of every other tale he had heard as a child. The Ice Wraiths that supposedly inhabited the northern reaches of the province, the vampires that were said to dwell in underground caverns and prey on wary travelers that passed by their habitats, werewolves that stalked the forests near Whiterun at night. He now doubted the falseness of their validity.

It was only the Orc who seemed to know what to do. If he had acted a few moments sooner, they could have begun slaughtering the Drauger as they fell out of their open tombs and, on feeble limbs, began to pick themselves up. In his opinion, that was when they were most vulnerable. The Orc's only solution was a terrible one, though a solution none-the-less. His companions barricaded the door with the lid of the tomb. It would hold, but only for a short time. Now was the time for him to act. It was obvious they needed the help and would perish otherwise. It was that, or wait until they did, indeed, fall victim to the undead on their doorstep and wait until the assailants crawled back into their holes and lay dormant again, but that would be foolish. All this trailing and watching would be for nothing. He shook the sleeves of his robes away from his hands and raised them to shoulder height, ancient words seeming to form on his lips of their own accord.

He couldn't remember how the spell worked, merely how to perform it. He knew it had something to do with conjuring a soul from Oblivion and forcing it back into a body, and he had performed the ritual to make it permanent. It had exhausted him thoroughly at the time, but at times like this, it was worth it. Any body he raised would fight until it could no longer move. What was more, if the spirit left the body, but the body was still capable to fight, it wouldn't turn into a pile of ash, as he had seen happen to many a necromancer's thrall, and at best their spells were temporary, the soul leaving the body after only a minute or two. Hardly effective for a man like him.

The purple glow then transferred itself to the cadaver in the shallow coffin, and while the trio were distracted by the newly perceived 'threat', he removed a small, beige-tinted bottle from his pouch, uncorked it, and drank a mouthful of the liquid, his body turning entirely transparent. How would they deal with the Drauger inside the enclosed space? If they killed it, he would merely raise it again and again until they were too tired. If they attempted to reason with it, he would think them daft and dumb for trying to speak to a man. If they did nothing, then he would reveal himself. And they did just that.

When he could see they were completely perplexed as to why the 'dead thrall' didn't attack, he spoke.

"Because Dar'Miisa hasn't told it to." He smiled an invisible smile and willed the potion away. His form materialized from nothingness as he stepped forward, his face still masked by his hood. "Dar'Miisa can help. Dar'Miisa knows many things, and Dar'Miisa knows the way out."

His eyes darted among the three, gauging their reactions. The Elf continued to cry in his corner, his only thoughts, probably, about himself and what he needed to do to get out alive. He would be easy to convert to an ally. The other two would be the problem. Both dropped their hands dangerously close to their belts, where swords or axes hung

"Who are you," he Orc asked, "and how did you get in here?" Dar'Miisa merely smiled under his hood and turned his attention to the door.

"Dar'Miisa will reveal in time, until then, you must trust him."

Valerius broke his gaze away from the figure and looked to the door. He weighed the options. Death lay beyond the door, and even if they managed to kill this figure and the risen corpse of the powerful Nord, they would still be trapped in this room until the Drauger on the other side broke through. And the worst that could happen if they trusted the stranger was just as bad as if they ran headlong into the force between them and the entrance to the tomb. He dropped his hands to his side and turned to the Orc.

"We may as well trust him. The worst that will happen is he will kill us, which is what will happen if we wait here," he stated. Khazromal narrowed his eyes at the newcomer with skepticism for a moment, but the pounding that had begun on the door to his back broke his thought process (or lack thereof).

"Then tell us," he spat, "because I'd prefer an honorable death, not getting swamped by things that belong in the ground."

"Thank you," cried Ilisian in exasperation. "I knew there was something wrong with the fact they weren't buried like a civilized society!"

"Really," Valerius asked, turning to face the Elf, still curled up in a ball on the floor. "You're going to bring that up again now?"

"Open the door," Dar'Miisa demanded, raising a hand towards the entrance, "and my friend will take care of everything. Only take care to close it behind, for he may not last forever, but he will delay their entry and chase of us."

"Are you _mad_," Ilisian coughed. "Open the door? Do you know how many of those things are out there? They—"

"Will be taken care of by our new friend," Dar'Miisa explained, gesturing to the Drauger, still standing in the coffin. "Either that, or they may break through while we are mid-flight, and I do not thing any of you wishes that upon yourself," he concluded calmly. "Now, open the door."

All three of the others hesitated to act. Dar'Miisa finally nodded to the Orc, who clasped the edges of the lid and began to slide it away from the door.

"Valerius," he grunted, mid-pull, "get the door, and be quick about closing it!"

Valerius' hand shot to the knob and twisted. As he opened, he tried to step back, but slipped on a rock that had dislodged itself during their scuffle with the lid the first time they moved it. He collapsed with his back against the coffin, the open doorway laying before his feet, and at least twenty Drauger fighting with each other to be the first in the room.

A hideous voice thundered from above the fallen Nord, beginning to echo out into the cavern. It leapt before the Nord, its back to the party, as its decaying mouth and tongue worked to produce the words it needed to shout.

"Boos roh _gaah", _ it thundered, his mouth seeming to form gibberish, or some ancient form of Nordic. The entire cavern shook with the ferocity of its cry, and it charged into the fray. It may have been the blow to his head, but Valerius could have sworn he saw the air before the advancing Drauger solidify, but at the same time push forward, knocking down the throng outside the door.

"A Thu'um," he whispered to no one but himself. "I never knew they existed. I always thought them a myth," he finished, his jaw agape at the scene before him.

The enthralled Drauger swung his ancient sword with a strength, belied by the age of the body that wielded it. The lesser Drauger were sent flying left and right in the narrow hallway, the massacre slowly advancing away from the quintet in the coffin area. The last thing Valerius could see before Ilisian slammed the door shut was a death-enthralled servant being impaled, through the chest, on the sword of his now-dead master and being tossed aside as easily as a child discards one rag doll for a new one.

Dar'Miisa hurried to the wall opposite the closed door and quickly pushed on several loose bricks in a seemingly random order, though what he did apparently meant something to the crypt. The wall began to slide back, revealing a passageway behind. The way was lined with torches, already lit, as if awaiting the group to discover them. The four wasted no time in sprinting down the passageway, the coffin lid long forgotten on a side wall. Dar'Miisa, the last to enter the passage, pulled on the metal ring that was attached to a small, thin chain that was wound around a spinning stone circle set into the wall on the right, just inside the hidden tunnel. The wall slid back into place, the seam only visible if you knew to look for it.

The escape tunnel wasn't long, only fifty to sixty feet, and ended at a sheer upward climb for thirty or so feet with a ladder nailed into one side of the shaft. Khazromal, apparently forgetting his strange fear of opening doors before others, jumped onto the ladder first, the light of the torch at the bottom barely reaching the hatch at the top. When he neared the opening, he stopped his climb and pushed with one hand on the hatch, but it didn't give way. He looked back down to the bottom where Dar'Miisa now waited.

"It's stuck," he called down, a hint of panic creeping into his voice. Valerius and Ilisian hugged the ladder, allowing Dar'Miisa to get a better look. He merely sighed and called back up and an aggravated tone.

"Push harder, you oaf! Use those muscles. Or are they only for show," he asked then, chuckling to himself. Khazromal grunted and returned his attention to the task at hand.

"I'll give you something for show," he quietly responded so only he would hear. He pushed as much weight into the hatch as he could without tumbling off the ladder, and after a moment, heard what sounded like several inches of snow and ice above the hatch begin to crack and finally shift. He gave one last mighty heave and threw the hatch open, quickly clinging to the ledge of the shaft as his feet almost slipped off the rung.

"We made it out," he called back down, a large, stupid grin on his face. "I can feel snow!"

"Of course you do," Ilisian replied. "We _are_ in Skyrim, after all. Now move, brute. I'm getting tired of looking at Valerius' backside."

"No one told you to look at it," the Nord chuckled down at his companion.

Once all four had piled out onto the snow (after wiggling their way out of the hollow tree stump the hatch had been hidden in), they stood in a close circle, the frigid gale from earlier not having subsided.

"What do we do now," Ilisian queried, his teeth beginning to chatter already.

"You go to this location," Dar'Miisa answered. He produced a small piece of parchment from inside his robes and shoved it in the middle of the other three before Khazromal grabbed it. "You go there before you talk to your employer and return the necklace," he continued, taking a step back from the group and producing the same flask he had pulled from his pouch earlier. He took a slightly larger sip and waited as the other three stared at the paper, attempting to read the scrawled writing. Deception was an easy thing to master, when you've had as much time as Dar'Miisa had. As he faded from view, he merely smiled at the trio and waited to see how long it would take them to notice.

Ilisian wrested the paper from Khaz's grasp and inspected it.

"Where is 'Fort Duslao'," he asked, stumbling over the word as he attempted to pronounce it. Valerius snatched it from his hand and regarded it for a moment before sighed.

"Fort Dunstad," he corrected. "I've heard of it. It's in The Pale, south of Dawnstar."

"Ah," Ilisian commented in realization. "But," he started, "the real question is how you knew we needed to go see our employer about the neck... lace."

The Elf had raised his eyes from the paper to where the cloaked figure had stood, and saw nothing but the footprints of where he stood. He swept his gaze into the snow surrounding the two bootprints, but saw nothing leading away. After no reply came, the two bodyguards also began to search for the missing individual.

"How did he do that," Khazromal asked after a moment of twisting his head left and right in vain. "It's like he vanished into thin air." Valerius merely shrugged while Ilisian slowly shook his head side to side, bewildered.

"All I know," Ilisian began after they had decided the fourth member was no longer there, "is that he did save our lives, so he deserves a chance to be heard."

"Aye," seconded Valerius, "but the last I heard, Fort Dunstad had been overrun by bandits. If we do go, we must be on our guard. And if this man works for them, I say we listen to what he has to say, and then beat a hasty retreat. The ilk of The Pale are to be feared, more-so than any other gang to be found in Skyrim."

"Great," Khazromal sighed. "Out of the frying pan and into the fryer. First Drauger, now merciless bandits that'll kill ya as soon as look at ya." He glanced to the North East, where Dawnstar, the captial of the region known as 'The Pale' lay. "Well, we may as well get going. We're still in Hjaalmarch, but if memory serves, Morthal is not but a half-hours' travel. We can stop there til morning.

The other two merely nodded in agreement as they set out in the direction of Morthal, the nearest city. Their minds where reeling with the night's events. Dead rising from the grave, a magical necklace whose wearer demanded his servants protect him, even in death, and this strange, hooded figure who called himself 'Dar'Miisa'. There was nothing that could make this night much different, or worse, as they headed back towards the road, doubling past the entrance of the crypt, which they all silently vowed never to visit again.

The cloaked figure watched the three depart the tomb, invisible to everyone, including himself, as the wind whipped his hood off. He smiled slowly, knowing these three would be good allies. He would have to reward his servant for finding them. Perhaps he would give her a bit more meat tonight. It was always so much better when she ate heartily, but times were hard. These three, however, merited an extra slab of horse meat, or even perhaps cow. He turned and set off in the opposite direction, knowing another shortcut that would lead him there faster than the others, which he guessed would become the normal in their relationship.


End file.
